


In the Garden (Tame)

by Match (pachipachi)



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pachipachi/pseuds/Match
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't happen often. It depends on how you define "often." It depends on whether something is happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Garden (Tame)

**Author's Note:**

> Late S1/early S2, no spoilers.

It doesn't happen often. It's the same each time.

Edward expects nothing by way of expecting anything. It pays -- pays pretty well, actually -- to be careful about what he allows himself to know. They trained him in situational awareness, and isn't this just another branch of the discipline?

The Capitol has more than enough places to lurk alone or kill time in company. Give him a few more weeks, he'll be showing some new guy the ropes.

Nancy doesn't text. From what Edward's seem, she's more than earned the right to be a stick-in-the-mud. He knows her voice as squashed through cell phone speakers better than in person. Which is neither good nor bad, just funny. Ha-ha, not peculiar.

"Mr. Meechum? Bring the car around, please. Mr. Underwood will meet you."

A tiny hitch of wrongness every time Nancy calls him Mister. He guesses she's been at the Capitol nearly as long as he's been alive. Tenure ought to mean something, no matter what your branch of service.

"Sure, Nancy," he says. "Be right there. Thanks."

That evening Edward opened the car door as usual, but the way Mr. Underwood reached up to him was not at all. Was how a woman might silently command to be squired toward a red carpet, a receiving line, any kind of brilliant gala. Mr. Underwood was right to trust his reflexes, because there they both were, crossing the back garden arm in arm.

The trellis and its lopsided wisteria beckoned like a prom photo backdrop. Of course Edward would never mention it, but he could tell Mrs. Underwood wasn't much of a gardener. Mr. Underwood stopped them conveniently short, saving Edward from the worst of a high school flashback. To this day he fucking hates balloons.

Mr. Underwood's arm rested demurely beneath Edward's. And then he closed the circuit, pressing the other hand to Edward's upper arm. "Meechum," he said, "if you do not know why you are here, or simply do not wish to know, I think that you had better leave."

They might as well have been holding hands. Edward thought he knew closet cases but this wasn't, not exactly. Mr. Underwood was brazen but not desperate, careful but not furtive. Whether Edward wanted the man seemed beside the point.

"I'm all right," he said. "Sir."

Mr. Underwood's fingertips against his cheek said nothing, demanded nothing.

One of them must have been the first to lean into the kiss. Edward couldn't swear it wasn't him. He flashed, improbably, to the hollow moment just before rushing a hostile position. How you imagined yourself moving over and over; remained frozen. How the moment of breaking cover came over you as a surprise you'd rehearsed a dozen times. It wasn't much different, here: by the time Edward decided to kiss Mr. Underwood back he found he was already doing so.

Very little tongue; anything but chaste. Mr. Underwood went at it teeth first, his lips moving against Edward's as if he were speaking. Edward could watch out just as well with ears alone, or wanted to imagine he could. He couldn't imagine opening his eyes. For all he knew this was how Mr. Underwood kissed his wife. The thought seemed more intimate than the fact of the man's stubble grazing his cheek.

"Do you have a lady friend at present, Meechum? A young man?"

Distant cars. Next-door neighbors' teenage son finally turning down the dubstep. It must have been a school night. Mr. Underwood's breathing, how he'd drawn them close enough for Edward to feel his chest expand and contract.

"No, sir," he said.

"Free and easy, then."

"And you?" Edward forced himself to swallow another reflexive sir. No point, really, when he was nuzzling the man, breathing him in.

"There are degrees of freedom, aren't there."

There's Mrs. Underwood, always. Edward rarely sees them touch, but he's heard Mr. Underwood on the phone. He's reasonably sure no one will ever look at him the way she does her husband.

The glass of the kitchen window was darker than the sky.

Later he would learn to anticipate the break, to drop his arms before Mr. Underwood could push him away. He hasn't stumbled again, not in the same way. There's the memory of blurting out, knowing it was stupid, unable to shut his damn mouth, "Do you... do you want me to come in, sir?"

Mr. Underwood laid on the drawl extra thick, his way of laughing up his sleeve. "No, Meechum. Believe me, I have no further designs on your virtue."

He could control his posture, keep his eyes steady, but he couldn't suppress the twitch that ran over his face: part shame, part relief, part disappointment. The back of Mr. Underwood's hand lingered against his cheek. If he'd turned his head Edward could've skimmed off the wedding band with his teeth. He didn't.

Less than ten feet between them and the door. No lights, none Edward could see, and weren't the Mr. and Mrs. both night owls?

"Good night, Meechum," Mr. Underwood was saying. The door shut behind him. It was possible he turned back, but Edward wouldn't swear to it. His own eyes were elsewhere. Separating figure from ground in this light was difficult but possible. One shadow entered the frame, right side; another joined it. Both shadows receded.

He'd received his dismissal. Off the clock, with Mr. Underwood safe, he was on the wrong side of trespassing. Edward blinked long, again, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Still no interior light, upstairs or down. He thought he could make out a figure standing well back from the window. It was impossible to tell which of them it was, or if they were facing him, or if it wasn't actually a piece of furniture.

You might've thought he'd kept his cool if you'd only watched him as far as the gate. In fact he nearly bit it coming down the few steps to the street.

*

It doesn't happen often. It depends on how you define _often_. It depends on whether something is happening. There's nights he imagines Mr. Underwood's eyes on him the whole drive, but lets him off and parks the car with hardly a word between them. There's nights when he's relieved the man is absorbed in work, because traffic is terrible and the CHECK ENGINE light just flicked on again, fuck if he knows why, and he hadn't thought to shower after the gym -- it's those nights he'll find a hand at his arm as he shuts the passenger door.

"Stay for a moment, Meechum," Mr. Underwood might say, or "Why don't you come in for a bit." The house is dark. Mr. Underwood waits by the trellis, looking neither towards him nor away.

There's pleasure simply in closing the last few paces between them, in pressing close enough to catch each other's scent. Mr. Underwood smells like nothing at all, which means they both must reek of the Capitol. Bad coffee mostly, and printer toner, and ozone. Sometimes a page is sent to pick up flowers or a Congressman sneaks a cigarette indoors. Industrial cleansers and old man farts. Icing and sour milk from bagel-and-pastry trays passed from office to office a day too long. Edward never minded the smell; he's come to relish it.

He's never felt more visible. You'd think it would be embarrassing, given his line of work, but in the garden it pays to be shameless. To be honest, he's surprised to find he still possesses any identifying characteristics at all. Enough time in sunglasses trailing three paces behind a VIP and you learn to flatten yourself. Belonging to the least memorable demographic in America always helps: white male, medium height, medium build, clean-shaven, medium dark hair. Mr. Underwood likes to run his fingers through it. Edward is purely, quietly glad he never sat for the standard cop buzz cut. It reminded him too much of deployment.

If Edward has a type, man or woman, Mr. Underwood surely isn't it. Is he Mr. Underwood's type? It's pointless to fantasize. Anyway the garden is the last thing he wants to think about, times when he's stretched out with a hand to his cock. How Mr. Underwood always waits for him in the brightest patch of half-light. How, more often than not, his hands find the exact place along the collarbone where the strap of his shoulder holster tends to dig in. How he can do a number on Edward's throat, tongue and teeth from his earlobe to the points of his collarbone, have him limp in his arms and half-hard, and then whisper "Understand that you can refuse. At any moment, you can refuse."

Another man -- there's always gossip -- might tell Edward how hard he is, or try to prove it by grinding against him. Mr. Underwood never does. Edward knows he'd fall to his knees at the barest suggestion. He'd undo Mr. Underwood's belt with his teeth.

Add up every second in the back garden, from the moment the gate latches till the moment Mr. Underwood shuts the door behind him, and it's still under an hour. Less time than the man might spend with a call girl, with more potential for damage. It's not flirtation, what they have, not foreplay. It's trust. Mr. Underwood wants to bind him closer, but Edward's already made his decision. Every touch, here, means less to explain later.

Edward smoothes down his blazer and waits for the sound of the deadbolt. He takes care to face the darkened window if he's got to adjust his tie or do up any shirt buttons. That he can't make out a figure doesn't mean there's no one there.

The gate latches behind him. He checks his watch out of habit, not registering the time. The bus runs late. He won't be the last one it ferries home.


End file.
